


For Bach and Bowie

by Gibslythe



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Guitarist Lance, Happy Ending, Homeless Lance, M/M, Soulmates through song, Swearing, pidge is nonbinary, shallura is a thing but mostly minor, they're all in their twenties, violinist keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gibslythe/pseuds/Gibslythe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith is lonely. <br/>It’s ridiculous really. He’s a ball of angst, a small, stubborn, sad little human with no soulmark and only a violin for comfort. That is, until he meets Lance McClain; a homeless New York City kid with only a guitar to his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Bach and Bowie

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!  
> This fanfic is mostly self-indulgent. I decided to write it as a way to get back into my writing groove. It won't be many chapters, only five or so, and I plan to resume Dirty Laundry when possible.

_ Subito _

_ [Soo-bi-toh] Adverb.  _

_ (As a musical direction) suddenly, abruptly. _

 

Keith first saw his soulmate during a New York City snowfall. 

In reality, it was more like he  _ heard  _ his soulmate. It was his voice that Keith discovered first, the voice paired with the soft rhythm of a guitar. 

Keith didn’t know it was his soulmate at first. In the beginning Keith barely thought twice about it, about the soft chorus that played in his ear. He originally thought it was the radio of his taxicab, maybe a new acoustic song off the Z100. He sat lounging against the car’s backseat, shoulders strained and fingers tired from the hours of orchestra practice, barely listening or caring to anything around him. 

However, the farther the car moved forward, the louder the song became, and as Keith’s eyes trailed out the car door window, Keith  _ realized. _

Someone was singing, a young homeless man on the side of the road, and Keith heard every damn word. He sat in the shadow of an alleyway, body wrapped up in a navy blue parka far too small for his lanky body. It had exactly three coffee stains, a broken zipper, and a rip in the left pocket. 

However, it wasn’t the man’s appearances that shocked Keith, no, it was the fact that Keith could hear  _ everything _ . His voice was clear as day, as if the young man was right next to him, as if he wasn’t over twenty feet away. 

It was like a magnet pulling him in, and Keith couldn’t control it, the man’s voice was overwhelming. Keith felt drawn to him, the man was something strange, something beyond your everyday New York City bum. It was more than the guitar he held in his arms, how he strummed the instrument with bare fingers and bounced his shoulders to the tune. It was more than his face, how Keith could see the whole thing, the hood of his parka pushed back so snow could kiss dark eyelashes. Maybe It was because of all the faces Keith could’ve seen, the one he saw was young. Dark skinned, shaggy hair pulled back with sweat and snow, dirt rubbed into the side of a sharp nose. The man couldn’t have been older than Keith himself. 

But the reality? It was the song he sang. An old song, one by David Bowie. It was a tune Keith’s own father had sang to him, Charles Kogane spinning and grinning with long arms around his wife’s waist. 

Hearing the homeless man’s voice in his head was one odd thing. However, the song? The man’s face? It was everything about him, everything about the boy made Keith’s chest  _ ache. _

And, even still?

_ He was so happy. _

Keith expected gloom, sorrow written across baggy eyes like every other bum on the street. But this man, this _ boy _ , there was something different about him. A distinct charm so unlike all the other civilians that lived in the city’s alleyways, a unique detail that made Keith drawn like a moth to a flame. It was the way he held himself, the way his shaking fingers toyed the guitar strings, like the music was the only thing warming him. It was how the man savored in such simplicity as white snow, all from his sidewalk corner of West End and 82nd St reet . It was how the man had forgotten every flaw in his life, how he stuck out his tongue at the sky like a child, waiting for snowflakes to fall and be devoured. 

For a moment, just a moment, Keith had the strong urge to leave the cab and reach for the man in the blue parka. Such a snow could turn sour within seconds, and Keith couldn’t help it, he  _ worried. _ Because, in an instant of downfall that homeless man’s smile could disappear completely, his song would end, the chorus would disperse, and the mere thought of something so awful made Keith’s heart physically tremor. 

When Keith rolled down the taxicab window to get a better look, it was then that the magnet’s pull snapped. The string broke, the curtain fell, the ball dropped, it all came crashing down, because it was then that he  _ knew. _

_ That man is my soulmate.  _

Keith had never been more sure about something. He knew it as bright as day, warmth enveloping his chest and defeating the January cold, like he’d been dropped into a pile of flaming embers. Lightning danced in strings from his heart to the ends of his limbs, tingling his calloused fingertips, all because he  _ knew.  _ Pieces clicked into place, each finding the groove of the puzzle, and for a moment Keith felt complete.

Keith had never heard of soulmates finding each other through song, but this? This was real. It made Keith yearn to grab him, to rip the taxi door open and run after the man. 

However, like the coward he was, he did not.

The taxi drove off that day, Keith hidden inside it. The cab delivered Keith to the steps of his apartment building as it always did, leaving the raven haired man to trudge through the tall snow like a child. His boots left footprints in the snow, forming a trail from the road towards the elevator where Keith stood, inputting his apartment code with violin case in hand. 

The homeless man plagued Keith’s mind for weeks after that. Some days Keith was filled with remorse, looking back and regretting his choices with ever fiber  of his being . On these days Keith debated going back to the street corner and looking for the strange homeless man. Keith had done just that, twice even, though each time resulted in an empty sidewalk and muddy snow. 

Other days Keith felt nothing. On these days Keith was forced to remind himself, to remember that abandoning his soulmate in the snow had been the right choice. A selfish one? Yes. A stupid one? Of course. But it made sense, at least in the moment. He knew running to greet the man in the blue parka would only end in chaos, and Keith’s moral compass shrieked that it wasn’t the right time. Keith wasn’t ready to meet his soulmate. Not that night in the taxicab, not the next day, not the day after.

Not then, but someday soon. 

 

\---

 

“Keith--” Shiro murmured, waving his hand in Keith’s face. “Are you listening?”

Keith blinked, the world shifting into place. He’d zoned out again, jaw resting in the palm of his propped up hand. 

“Er, yeah.” Keith shook his head and blinked a few more times. “Sorry about that.” 

Shiro sighed, exasperated, and tossed his ketchup covered fry back into the fry basket. “Keith, buddy. Something is wrong.”

“No, there isn’t.”

It was like they were in highschool again. Shiro used to protect Keith from everything, every bully, every leery eyed student, and this situation felt no different. Shiro was constantly worried about Keith, always had, always would, and Keith still found it entirely bothersome. 

“Yes, there is,” Shiro ushered. “You can’t just sit there, obviously out of it, and tell me nothing is wrong.”

Keith groaned, rolling his eyes. “Nothing  _ is _ wrong, Shiro. Stop pestering me.” As if to initiate the end of the conversation, Keith promptly grabbed a fry from Shiro’s basket and popped it into his mouth. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired of what? Your job? Your life?”

Keith grunted in protest. “How about ‘tired physically’? I haven’t been getting much sleep, that’s it.” 

This was true, he hadn’t, and Keith knew exactly why he’d obtained insomnia: an unwanted stretch of depression. A depression caused by what, Keith wasn’t sure, though he wanted more than anything for it to disappear completely. It didn’t help that each day was filled with constant worry about the man in the alleyway. 

Shiro took another fry into his mouth. “I’m buying you some melatonin. You need sleep, especially with a job like yours.”

“My job is great,” Keith countered sharply. “Just intense, with weird hours.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow as if his point had been proven, and Keith wanted to bang his head against the diner tabletop. It wasn’t the job, it was anything _ but _ the job. Keith loved being a violinist, more than anything in the entire world, and his position as a first chair performer for the New York Philharmonic was a career one did not obtain easily. The job was, if anything, the only part of Keith’s life keeping him grounded. 

“I know something is wrong, and I’m going to find out what. Don’t fight me on this.” Shiro’s warning could barely be considered a threat, mostly for the warm, brotherly loving face he wore and displayed far too often. 

“You know I could- and I’d win too,” Keith countered bravely. 

Shiro chuckled at that, though they both knew it would be a fair fight between them. A match would be just like the old days, back when they’d wrestle on Shiro’s family trampoline or have sprinting matches to the gas station for candy. 

The mere thought of their past made Keith’s emotions two-edged, as high school had been bittersweet. Terrible for the car accident Keith’s parents were killed in, but strange for the love of his godparents, Mr. And Mrs. Shirogane, who’d welcomed him into their family with open arms. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to this diner before,” Shiro began, changing the subject drastically. “It’s not even that far from your work. You’ve never even come here with coworkers?”

Keith gave his friend a blank stare, as if it were obvious. “All my coworkers are over the age of forty, Shiro. The majority are in their fifties, even.”

That made Shiro laugh warmly, leaning back against the diner seat again. “I forgot about that.” Shiro paused. “But we’re pretty old too, Keith. I’m almost thirty-two.” 

“That’s not old.”

“I have a daughter! She’s about to enter kindergarten this september!” Shiro waved his hand as he spoke, as if the conversation at hand was far more dramatic than reality.  “I’ll have a child in school, Keith. Pretty soon I’ll be a grandpa.”

Keith almost snorted, and he had to set down his coke as to swallow down the burning liquid. “Takashi Shirogane, slow the hell down. You’ve still got over ten, maybe even fifteen years to go. Molly is  _ four _ .” 

“Speaking of Molly,” Shiro began, slowly getting up to throw his basket of leftover fries into the trash. “We were wondering if you could watch her on the days you have off? Allura just got a great job at City Hall and--”

“I’ll think about it.” Keith spoke flatly, already running through his mental schedule. In reality, Keith could’ve said yes in an instant. Him and Shiro both knew his job left days free until 4:30 p.m., and it was during these hours that Keith wasted his life away doing nothing. However, did Keith  _ want _ to watch Molly? 

Yes and no. Yes, because he loved the girl and considered her his niece. But no, mainly because Keith was stuck in a small hole of angst. He could barely take care of himself, let alone another human being for six hours a day. 

“It would only be two or three times a week,” Shiro continued, both of them already bundled in their coats and scarves, heading towards the diner’s front door. “Allura can take care of her some days and obviously weekends and…”

Keith wasn’t listening anymore, that much was certain. Something made Keith stop, his body physically halting in the snow. With arms at his sides and jaw clenched tightly, Keith glared at the figure sitting only yards away from him. Keith looked ready to burst, heart pounding and blood pumping viciously in his ears. 

It was him. The homeless man, Keith’s homeless man, the man in the blue parka, the man with the guitar. 

His soulmate. 

He sat with his guitar in hand and case open for loose change, the hood down to reveal a face so much clearer than the one Keith saw from the taxi. He had a tan face, though some patches of skin were darker from dried dirt, and his eyelashes were the longest Keith had ever seen. They protected bright blue eyes like a curtain, and his nose was rather large and sharp.

Despite his pretty, though dirty, face, Keith’s soulmate was far different than anything he could’ve expected. Well, that was an understatement, the man’s very existence was a surprise for Keith. 

Keith was born without a soulmark, a birthmark most people of the world obtained around the age of ten. It was a strange tattoo, appearing somewhere random on the skin. Each mark was unique to the individual and their soulmate, and Keith had envied every single one of them. He’d even envied Shiro, listening to the older boy when they were kids talk about the beautiful name on the inside of his palm. 

“Her name is Allura,” Shiro had declared to an eleven year old Keith, the two of them sitting on Shiro’s large bed covered in a vibrant colored quilt. Their parents had been downstairs, drinking wine and reminiscing over small talk. 

Shiro had opened his palm to Keith, showing him the small name engraved in a dark patch against his skin. Even at eleven, Keith knew it was rare to get your soulmate’s name, and Keith remembered how envious he’d been. 

“What about you?” Shiro had continued, his smile so innocent. “Do you have your mark yet?”

Keith remembered how he’d shaken his head slowly, his heart already dropping to the pit of his stomach. “No,” a small Keith had mumbled. “It’s a year late.”

Shiro had tried so hard to comfort him then, and he had continued to do so even into their high school years. Keith had eventually accepted his fate, finding he was incapable of being loved, and that was that. 

Well, until now, up until he’d heard his homeless musician in the snowfall. Now things had changed, because Keith  _ was  _ capable of love, and those words of confirmation and compassion Shiro had drilled into his brain weren’t lies. They were true, Keith  _ was _ capable of being loved, and he wanted so badly to love someone else just as equally. He’d seen it in his parents, he’d seen it in the Shirogane's, he’d seen it between Shiro and Allura. 

But, this? This man in front of him, playing the guitar and begging for money? Even though it felt so right, it simultaneously felt so wrong. 

“Keith? Keith, are you okay?”

Shiro finally woke Keith from his trance with a pinch to the shoulder. Keith jumped at the small shot of pain, whacking Shiro back in angry defiance. 

“Hey!” Keith declared. “What was that for?”

Shiro sighed again, something he’d been doing a lot on their lunch outing. “You spaced out. Again. What in the hell is wrong with you?”

Keith bit his lip, and for a moment he wanted Shiro to just leave him be, to take his car keys and drive away in his used corolla. But this was Shiro, his best friend, his brother, his right hand man. He couldn’t just let him go on in the dark, he couldn’t just lie. 

“Shiro,” Keith began, suddenly turning the taller man and him around with a newfound sense of urgency. “See that homeless man over there?” He subtly pointed to his soulmate behind him, sitting and strumming the guitar only a few yards away. 

Shiro looked over his shoulder (not subtly in the slightest) and mumbled a blunt, “Uh, yeah?”

Keith took a breath. “I think that’s my soulmate.”

For a brief moment it was silent between the two of them, and Keith had no idea what was going on through Shiro’s head.

And then Shiro finally spoke, tone oozing with disbelief. “Wait--you  _ think _ ? You  _ think _ he’s your soulmate?” 

“Yes! No, I mean. I  _ know _ ,” Keith corrected himself. “I’m sure of it.” 

Honestly, Keith really didn’t expect Shiro to believe him. Keith barely believed it himself, the concept was ludicrous and didn’t add up with Keith’s lack of a soulmark. 

But there was something small, something bright and powerful and vibrant nagging at the back of Keith’s mind, something that told him this feeling was genuine. 

“Hmm,” Shiro finally hummed, standing up straighter to get a better look at the homeless man. It was ridiculous really, Shiro was already a disgusting height of six foot two, so the short shift in height only made him taller. Then, accompanied with his wide, curious eyes and not-so-subtle voice, their spying became all the more evident. 

“He’s--” Shiro paused. “Cute?”

“Jesus Christ, Shiro, could you be a  _ little  _ more obvious?”

With a swift tug of Shiro’s knit scarf, the tall man was pulled back down to huddle at Keith’s level, their backs to Keith’s guitarist. “Listen,” Keith continued, his voice still at a hoarse whisper. “I saw him a few weeks ago on my way home from work, that’s when I realized.”

“But how did you know? Are you sure this isn’t just--”

“He is!” 

Keith hadn’t meant to sound so angry, his voice louder and far more harsh. He bit his lip and quieted down again. “He is. It’s like a sixth sense or some strange message from God--”

“ _ God _ ?”

“--and everything in my system is telling me he’s the one. You gotta believe me, Shiro.”

Shiro stood up straight and fixed his scarf, eyes cloudy as if processing the new information. Keith straightened as well and took another quick peek over his shoulder, observing the way his soulmate gave warm smiles to pedestrians passing by, one even dropping a few quarters into the guitar case. There was no sign near his soulmate, no cardboard with words scribbled in old marker, nothing but his guitar and the open case. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Keith finally heaved out, anxiously tucking a loose strand of raven hair back into his ponytail. “How, how do I tell him? He’s homeless, Shiro. I can’t just go up and shout the news. I’ll scare him.”

“He doesn’t look like one who scares easily,” Shiro confessed, the two of them watching the man close his eyes and hum to the music. 

Keith rubbed at his temples. “How did you tell Allura she was the one?” 

“She told me actually, and no, you are  _ not  _ doing this the way she did.”

Keith was smart enough to know a ludicrous story always followed sentences like that, especially with Shiro, and he immediately closed his eyes to hide the terrors of the world from view. 

“I just--” Keith swallowed, trying to find the answer without breaking down. “I just need a way to approach him, to become his friend, to do  _ something _ .”

Then, as he always did, Shiro had the answer. With a small smile on his lips, Shiro reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. 

“Take this.”

“W-What? No? I don’t need your money--”

Shiro shushed Keith, instead placing the money into Keith’s gloved hand. 

“Go. Give him the money, tell him it’s because you really like his music. Get to know him, befriend him.”

For a second, Keith stood blank. His violet eyes were open wide, mouth open in the shape of a small ‘o’. Shiro never failed to impress him, never failed to be the brother Keith had always wanted. 

“But,” Keith began, anxiety still clouding his senses. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if I say something stupid and he--”

“You’re a musician, Keith. It’s your passion, you won’t mess up a conversation about music. You’re in love with it, and from the way he plays? I think he’s in love with it too.” 

It was true, Keith had noticed the man’s tenderness with his music, paired with a strange familiarity the man held with his guitar. He played the instrument like he’d been doing so for years, never once pausing to find the right notes, never once missing a mark. He simply hummed and moved his shoulders to the strum of the strings. And when the man sang, he sang as if speaking, and it was the most authentic emotion ever. The guitar and the man? They were friends, and that much was obvious.

After letting himself breath two counts, Keith finally nodded and closed his hand around the money. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” 

Shiro grinned again, and squeezed Keith’s shoulder one last time. It was Shiro’s way of saying he cared, a habit Shiro had since childhood.

And then he was gone, giving a small wave and walking towards the parking garage a block over. Off to his life, his family, his daughter, his job, off to a life Keith had somewhat always envied.  

Keith swallowed. This was his life. He couldn’t waste it away being jealous of people who had things he did not. 

With a small burst of confidence Keith didn’t know he had, Keith let his feet move across pavement. He could feel his heart shaking, he could feeling his blood screaming, all because everything inside him felt  _ so right _ . That didn’t mean he was brave, no, that just made it all the more terrifying, that just made his adrenaline pump harder and burn brighter. 

Then, without even thinking about his movements, Keith leaned down and dropped the twenty dollar bill into the case. The music stopped, and then  _ he spoke. _

“Hey, thanks man, I really appreciate it.”

Keith wasn’t sure to make of it. 

The man spoke to him. Keith’s soulmate had spoken to him, this was real, it wasn’t fake, and his soulmate had said  _ real, concrete words.  _ Keith had expected angels to sing or the heavens to open, he expected more than just words that were simple and everyday. Keith didn’t know what to make of it. Was this normal? Was confronting your soulmate always this simple, this casual? Keith almost wished that there  _ had  _ been fireworks, that his soulmates words had at least made a sliver of more impact. 

And then, as if God was mocking him for such naive thinking, Keith had the pleasure of hearing more words. 

“Holy motherfucking shit! Is that a twenty dollar bill?!”

 

\---

Lance McClain. 

Keith’s soulmate was named Lance McClain. 

This was the  _ second  _ thing Keith learned that day, simply standing in the snow with Shiro’s money at the bottom of Lance’s r atty guitar case. 

However, the  _ first _ thing? The first thing he learned was that Lance McClain swore, and he swore like a motherfucking sailor. He had no shame, and despite everything that could’ve made Keith laugh, this was the one thing that did. 

Keith had laughed, giggled and chuckled and let his smile spread because dammit,  _ this was funny.  _ Everything about it was downright hilarious. Keith had grown up thinking he was loveless, that he was unworthy of love, only to have his world spun upside down. This was Keith being slapped with a ‘You were  _ wrong _ !” sign across his face. This was Keith being twenty five years old and finally meeting the man of his dreams. This was Keith meeting his soulmate: a homeless New York City bum who played his guitar for cash. And, additionally, swore every other fucking word. 

What a fairytale this was. 

And in Keith’s fairytale, he had the privilege of introducing himself in the most impractical, most improper way possible: by yelling, practically shouting his own name. 

“I’m Keith Kogane!”

One would think Keith was talking to an elderly citizen from the way he roared into Lance’s face, literally screaming at him. The whole scenario was atrocious.

“No need to shout, dude.” Lance responded, barely missing a beat. “But hey, I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic. I’m Lance McClain.”

Keith wasn’t sure whether to be angry at the man or thankful for his unconcerned reaction.

“I-I’m sorry,” Keith had mumbled, unsure of how to  _ not _ look absolutely ridiculous. “For yelling, I mean. I just, well--” He was cringing, and screaming, and mentally wishing he could walk away. He was doing horrific so far, and he grasped at anything simple and polite to say without appearing even more brainless. 

“Your guitar is cool.” 

Again, Keith was mentally screaming.

Despite Keith’s strange introduction, Lance wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He was smiling, genuinely flattered, barely making a second glance at Keith’s incomplete composure. 

“Thanks.” Lance said kindly. “She belonged to my Dad.” For a swift moment Lance looked reminiscent and sad, before that cheeky grin returned. “Anyway, I’m glad you like her.”

“Her?” Keith questioned, eyebrows raised at his strange connection to his guitar. 

Lance nodded and look down at the guitar’s aged and worn wood. “Yeah, her name is Blue.” 

Such a strange name for a guitar, Keith would admit, especially for an instrument without a speck of blue on it. That is, until Keith noticed the cursive writing near the corner of the guitar’s front. It was in sharpie, the name ‘blue’ written in a mix of flourishes and swirls. Next to it was a faded, slightly ripped sticker, placed unevenly as if done by a child. It was a lion, a blue lion, with large baby eyes. It reminded Keith of the stickers his mother bought him from the dollar store, back when he was young. 

“Why blue?” Keith questioned, letting his curiosity move the conversation. 

Lance wore that reminiscent face again, only for a second. “I named her; I was only four at the time. Blue was my favorite color.” He shifted in his spot on the ground, fidgeting as if uncomfortable, and he wiped snow from his old jeans. “You know, you’re extremely curious. You ask a lot of questions.”

Keith felt himself redden, he was being too forward. 

“Well, I like guitars, and yours is beautiful.”

“You play?”

Keith shook his head. “I’m a violinist.”

This made Lance raise an eyebrow. “That’s like comparing apples and oranges, dude.” 

Keith chuckled at that, and Lance smiled right on back. Lance’s grin displayed a tiny dimple at the left of his jaw, and Keith couldn’t help but find it flattering on him. 

Suddenly, as if it had never left, the magnet's pull returned, tugging at the inner lining of Keith’s stomach. The two of them had been smiling at each other for moments, both slightly lost on what to say. It felt bizarre, two complete strangers on the side of the road staring at each other, smiling, grinning, observing the other’s faces like it had everything in the world to give. Lance felt the magnet too, Keith could see it in his eye. 

Then, as if a switched had been flipped, the magnet’s pull dispersed. The two of them blushed and turned away from each other, feeling out of place. Keith shoved his hands into the pocket of his parka and looked to his left, not knowing what else to say without making it even more awkward. 

“Well. Nice talking to you,” Keith finally choked out, inwardly cringing at how uncomfortable he sounded. 

And then Keith was gone, letting his feet move him down the snowy sidewalk. 

What a coward he was.

\---

 

Weeks passed, and Keith attempted to forget about Lance McClain. It was both a hard and easy task, one that required concentration some days and disregard on others. 

On Monday he filled his day with mindless sleep and reading, lounging about his apartment in nothing but boxers and a lone sock. This day was a hard one, as he was left to his own devices. Tuesday didn’t prove much better, though he did find himself somewhat productive. He cleaned and showered, wrote sheet music, played his violin for an hour. Wednesday he watched Molly, though only for a bit before spending his day at practice. Thursday was filled with more practice, and he made dinner for his neighbor, Pidge, a younger kid who’d barely graduated with their masters degree.

And then Friday came, and so did the blizzard. 

It was a terrible one, terrible enough that Keith’s weekend performances had been cancelled. 

Keith would proudly admit this; he was disappointed. He’d looked forward to performing at the Lincoln Plaza Center, as he always did this time of year, and he’d hoped it would deliver a decent distraction. The blizzard was making things worse, taking away the one thing he looked forward to, and Keith let his anxiety run wild. The man paced his living room in a sweater, rubbing a bottom lip between his teeth from the worry. 

Lance . I t was Lance that he continued to fret over. The man was in this bloody blizzard, a terrible thing that made even the buildings of Manhattan shiver. Just the thought of Lance with no shelter made Keith’s bones rattle. 

He was frantic. He’d opened several books from the shelf, only to close them again. He’d tried listening to music, yet the classical radio station he often enjoyed felt bland. He even thought about texting Shiro, though the thought was immediately vetoed. 

And then, as clear as the night Keith heard it, Lance began to sing. Sang in Keith’s head, that is, though he was singing all the same. It was the same song as before, and the lyrics left shivers down Keith’s spine, shivers not a product of the cold. 

How he could hear Lance, Keith didn’t know. Lance could’ve been miles away, and still Keith could recognize the sound of his voice. It was so familiar, as if he’d been listening to the rough sound for years. 

_ “There's a starman waiting in the sky, he'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he'd blow our minds--” _

The next thing he knew, Keith was gripping his snow jacket from the closet and throwing on snowboots. Still in pajamas and a loose t-shirt, Keith grabbed his keys and slammed the front door behind him. 

Where he was going, Keith didn’t know. Why he was going, Keith didn’t know either. But it was the song, the words, the singing in his head that called to him like a cry for help. And even though Keith knew he was being rash, irrational, ridiculous, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, every part of his being told him to  _ find Lance _ .

As soon as Keith’s feet hit snow covered pavement, he was running. He was probably a sight to see; a strange man in pajamas running through downtown New York, wearing only a parka for warmth. 

Keith had no knowledge of his destination, other than the fact that his feet were leading him in the right direction. Hopefully, he told himself, hopefully he’d find his Lance McClain. If he was just running at random through a blizzard as bad as this, and for a boy no less? Hell, it’d better be worth it. He’d never forgive himself. 

It was freezing, the icy air nipping at his exposed skin. The running and newfound sweat warmed him up immensely, though he could still feel his fingers turning numb from the snow. Instead of feeling sorry for himself or regretting his lack of mittens, Keith instead listened to Lance’s voice echo. It grew louder with more covered ground, as Keith was getting closer to the source. 

Then the singing stopped, and so did Keith’s feet.

The wind continued to rush through Keith’s bones, rattling them and raising goosebumps across his pale neck. He swung his body around in circles, looking up at the white sky and the snow falling from it.

“Shit,” Keith swore to no one in particular, the curse aimed at himself. He’d lost the trail, he’d lost his location, he himself was lost in the middle of New York. No phone, no money, nothing but his house key stuffed into the padding of his winter coat. 

Keith could feel his lips vibrating from the cold, each shiver vicious and brutal. Running a frantic hand through his hair, Keith tried to find a landmark near him. Several business buildings surrounded him, many cars honking as they braved the violent weather, even a few pedestrians just as wild as Keith himself. He instead focused on the road signs, wrapping his arms around himself. 

Then, as if God truly was real, Keith’s prayer was answered. 

As he began to take long strides back the way he came, Keith heard Lance’s singing. However, this time it was the real deal, the kind you heard in person It wasn’t the songs from his head, no, this was the true sound of a man cold, shivering, and singing in a back alley. 

Keith followed the noise and saw him sitting there; Lance. He looked the same, as if a week hadn’t passed in the slightest. This time, however, he was far more bundled up, a blanket even wrapped around his shoulders. Despite the cold, he was  _ still  _ playing that damn guitar, and Keith silently wondered if he’d ever stopped.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Keith’s fingers subconsciously searched for a few coins to give Lance, only to realize he’d brought no money with him. Just the keys to his apartment. 

_ Wait a second. _

_ His apartment. _

With his palm clasped around the blade of his house key, Keith took a step forward, directly in front of Lance. The man looked up, eyes squinting into the sky’s white light. 

“Hey--” Lance paused. “You’re Keith. Right?”

Keith nodded. “Lance. I know we don’t know each other very well, but it’s cold outside.”

“Um, yes? Yes, it is.” 

Keith swallowed, digesting all his fear, all his worries, insecurities, anxieties. The situation was terrifying, which was ironic for Keith, as he performed in front of thousands of people every weekend. But talking to boys? Talking to people in general? Keith could barely do such a thing. 

Then, before he knew it, Keith was doing just that. Talking, speaking, clenching the key even tighter into his palm, letting it dig into his skin, mentally screaming, all so he could ask one simple question. 

“Do you need a place to sleep tonight?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
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> 
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